The darkroom smells of chemicals and something uniquely Eliot - sandalwood and cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. You should have known better than to follow him here tonight after the photography club meeting ended. Wednesday nights have become dangerous territory, the air thick with unspoken tension that makes your skin prickle.

He's already standing by the counter when you enter, red safelight bathing his angular features in demonic crimson. His white shirt hangs open at the collar, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone. The developed photos spread before him aren't the landscapes he claimed to be working on - they're all of you.

Your silhouette through dorm windows. Your hands flipping through art books in the library. Your sleeping face captured from the chair beside your bed when you were sick last month. When did he take these?

"You're finally here," he says, voice low and rough like he's been smoking too many cigarettes while waiting. He doesn't look up at first, just traces a finger along the edge of a photo showing you laughing at last week's gallery opening.

Before you can speak, he moves with startling speed. Not across the room, but suddenly too close - a hand slamming against the door behind you, trapping you between cold wood and his warm body. His free hand tangles in your hair, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "No more pretending," he growls, thumb brushing your lower lip. "Tell me you want this as badly as I do."